something worth repeating
by thespacenico
Summary: "You're my squish, Keith."


Keith stares.

He stares some more. He blinks. His reflection blinks back at him. He frowns and pushes his hair back. Stares a little more. Lets his hair fall back into his face with a muffled sigh.

"Go away," he mutters.

It does not go away.

He brings a tentative hand up and traces along the edges of the faded, discolored streak of skin on his cheek, trying to imagine what it had looked like before. It still seems so foreign and unfamiliar to him, still catches him off guard every time he catches a glimpse of his reflection, no matter how many times he looks in the mirror or how long he sits and glares at it.

It's not that he's embarrassed by it or anything. He's not ashamed, or resentful of the way it draws the not-so-subtle attention of everyone who sees him; he can't blame them for being curious. And it's not about the memory it so often brings to mind—the pain it used to bring has long since been dealt with, only barely manages to manifest itself as a dull ache every once in a while.

But it's just so… loud. So very clearly apparent and such a glaringly obvious reminder of everything that he's been trying to leave behind since the war ended. He just wishes he could leave it behind, too.

He pokes at it. Scowls. Drops his hand back into his lap. Brings it back up to rub the sleep out of his eyes.

The sheets shift a little as the warm body lying next to him stirs, and then an arm is being slid around his waist and pulling him closer. Keith glances down as Lance presses himself into his side, stifling an enormous yawn.

"Morning," he mumbles sleepily, eyes still closed.

Keith's mouth twitches up into a smile, running his fingers through Lance's hair just to mess it up a little more. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Mmf." Lance's arm tucks tighter around him. He yawns again, this time without trying to stop it. "What're you doing?"

"Nothing." Keith glances back at the mirror hanging on the wall across the room.

When he looks back down, Lance is peeking up at him, squinting against the sunlight filtering into the room. "What're you looking at?"

"Nothing," Keith repeats.

Lance blinks a few times. "You're doing it again, aren't you?"

"No."

"You are. You're doing the thing."

Keith huffs. "The thing."

"The thing," Lance repeats, poking Keith in the stomach. "Keith."

"Lance."

Lance pouts. "We've talked about the thing."

Keith sighs in defeat and lets himself fall back onto the pillows, earning an undignified squawk from Lance when he almost squashes his head in the process. "I just thought I'd at least be used to it by now," he admits.

Lance props himself up on his elbow and looks down at him, a crinkle forming in his brow. Keith glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Lance tilts his head. "It's okay if you're not," he says softly.

"Well, maybe I want to be." Keith pauses. "What if I can't?"

"You're being dramatic, babe," Lance sighs, flopping back onto the bed.

Keith frowns at the ceiling. "Do you think it'll ever go away?"

Lance makes an inhuman noise as he stretches, rolling over to face Keith again. "Why does it matter?"

Keith groans in protest as Lance pulls him over onto his side before he can respond, tangling their legs together and pulling the sheets over their heads. Lance blinks at him from underneath their new hideaway. Keith blinks back. "Shouldn't you be getting ready to go for a run?"

"Too cold outside," Lance mumbles, wiggling his way closer until their bodies are pressed flush together, close enough that his breath tickles Keith's nose. "And you're warm."

"You told me I have a giant ice cube for a heart."

"Dios mio," Lance mutters, and Keith laughs. "Are you ever gonna let that go? That was like three years ago!"

Keith pats his cheek, and Lance smiles. "Say something nice about me and I'll think about it."

Lance hums, taking Keith's hand and intertwining their fingers. "You get really messy bedhead."

"Gee, thanks," Keith deadpans.

"It's cute."

Keith snorts. "You're one to talk."

Lance grins, and even though Keith has seen that smile directed right at him a thousand times over, it still makes his heart flutter pleasantly in his chest. "You do that thing where you pull your sleeves over your hands to hold your coffee mug so it won't burn you. That's cute too."

"Hm," Keith lets himself smile back. "Okay. What else?"

"The way you have to read everything out loud to yourself really quietly," Lance answers immediately, as if he's already thought about it a million times before. "And how you get really cuddly when you're tired." His smile seems to fade a little, replaced suddenly by something more honest, sincere. Keith finds himself holding his breath, mesmerized by the intensity of the color of Lance's eyes, and the way they seem to be staring into him, instead of just at him.

"How you accidentally glare at people when you get lost in thought," Lance continues softly. "And sing along really loudly and terribly to your favorite songs in the car."

"I have a great voice," Keith objects.

Lance smiles again, but it's gentler. "The way you always have to be moving somehow and get really fidgety when you've been sitting still for too long. How you chew on your lip when you're nervous, and scrunch up your eyebrows when you're stressed. And—" Keith wrinkles his nose when Lance leans in and kisses it. Lance laughs. "That."

"It tickles," Keith mumbles defensively.

His eyes remain transfixed on Lance as he lets go of Keith's hand and slowly reaches up, tracing the scar on his cheek with a light, delicate finger. Keith studies the freckles scattered across his nose, imagines the constellations they could make if they were stars. Lance's hand is warm when he rests it on Keith's cheek, and his breath ruffles Keith's hair a little when he sighs.

"You're still the same person with or without it, you know," he says quietly.

Keith offers him a small smile. "I know."

Lance just watches him for a moment, and Keith thinks he would be content just to lay here and look at Lance, forever. Then Lance leans in, pulls him closer and Keith closes his eyes as Lance presses a kiss to the skin there on his cheek, feather-light. "I love you," he murmurs, and Keith isn't sure if the shiver that goes down his spine is from Lance's words, his lips brushing across his skin, or both.

He wraps his arm all the way around Keith and slips his fingers through his hair, pulls him as close as he can possibly get. "I love you," he says again, and kisses his cheek again.

"Oof," Keith squirms a little as Lance moves to press his lips to his cheekbone, to his eyelids, across the bridge of his nose. "You're squishing me."

Lance kisses his other eyelid. "That's a cute word. Squish."

"Stop."

"Squish squish."

"Lance—"

"I guess that makes you a squish, then. You're my squish, Keith."

Keith fails to hold back his laughter as Lance tears the sheets away and rolls him over, clambering on top so he can continue to pepper his face with kisses. "Lance," he complains only half-heartedly, turning to smush half of his face into the pillow in an attempt to lessen the onslaught.

Lance just goes on to kiss his exposed cheek. "I love you."

"You said that already," Keith wriggles. "Twice."

"Three times, actually," Lance responds, pressing his lips again to Keith's brow. "Just seems like something worth repeating."

Keith finally gives in and lets himself sink into the bed underneath him, squeezing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose when Lance immediately goes for them, wiggling his toes to combat the tickling sensation. "Then tell me again."

Lance's attack stops. Keith cautiously opens his eyes to see Lance just staring down at him. "Okay." Another smile slowly crosses his face. "Okay," he says again, and then leans down to kiss his forehead. "I love you," he murmurs, and Keith's eyes flutter closed. He kisses the space between his eyebrows. "I love you." Kisses the bridge of his nose. "I love you." The very tip of his nose. "I love you." And the corner of his mouth.

But then he doesn't get the chance to say it again, because Keith takes his face in his hands and guides him the rest of the way to his mouth.

Keith can feel Lance still smiling. He parts his lips, Lance tilts his head, and Keith lets himself melt into the kiss, laces his finger through the hair on Lance's neck and holds him closer than should be possible.

"I love you too," he mumbles against Lance's lips, when his mind has cleared somewhat and his skin isn't burning quite as intensely and he can breathe again. And then Lance kisses him again, before he can protest. Not that he would have, anyway.

* * *

"Cute," Lance says later, when they're sitting on the couch watching the second half of some corny rom-com that was already on, their shoulders pressed together underneath the blanket because it's cold outside and Keith is warm.

Keith looks at him. "What?"

"Your scar," Lance clarifies, switching off the TV and tossing the remote onto the floor. "It's cute."

Keith feels his cheeks flush, and he buries his face in Lance's shoulder with a groan. "Lance, you can't do that," he manages in the midst of Lance's laughter.

"What? You weren't all blushy when I was telling you how cute you are this morning."

"This morning," Keith repeats pointedly, his voice muffled by the fabric of Lance's sweater. "I was still half-asleep."

"Here, maybe this will help." Keith yelps as he's pulled into Lance's chest and they flop over onto the couch. Lance pulls the blanket over their heads and grins up at him. "Better?"

"You're a dork," Keith huffs. He pauses. "I love you."

Lance pulls him down and kisses him.


End file.
